


Allegretto

by Luorescence



Series: Cuckoo Clock [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Community: wintercompanion, Eleventh Doctor Era, F/M, Future Version(s) of Jack Harkness, M/M, Mind Meld, Mind Sex, Multi, Prompt Fic, Psychic Bond, Sexual Content, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luorescence/pseuds/Luorescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No, he’s not jealous. He’s merely being childish. He feels excluded, which is stupid because sex isn’t what he’s searching for and Clara will kick Jack out of her room when they’ll be finished. The captain will be back with him by the end of the night cycle. But to be honest, he’d rather keep him to himself: Jack is an excellent cuddle-bag and, the Doctor must admit, he doesn’t like to have to share the attention."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allegretto

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a stand-alone
> 
>  **Prompt:** Trapped  
>  **Spoilers/warnings:** Set after Day of the Doctor for the Doctor and Clara. Future!Jack
> 
>  **Author’s notes:** I really wanted a threesome Jack/Eleven/Clara, so here is it. It was supposed to be only smut, and rather short. Jack and the Doctor wouldn't cooperate, again. Things got out of hand, again. The writing is very different than what I'm used to but I hope you'll like it anyway.

It’s not that he’s jealous, the Doctor thinks as he waves goodnight to Clara. Only humans from the mildly primitive ante-23th centuries are jealous when their lovers go running around. And this is Jack Harkness. Of course he’d swoon Clara easily, even more easily than he’d captured Rose’s attention. But, the Doctor is also aware Jack is cheating; he deduced since long that Jack already had his way with his Impossible Girl somewhere in the future.  
  
No, he’s not jealous. He’s merely being childish. He feels excluded, which is stupid because sex isn’t what he’s searching for  _and_  Clara will kick Jack out of her room when they’ll be finished. The captain will be back with him by the end of the night cycle. But to be honest, he’d rather keep him to himself: Jack is an excellent cuddle-bag and, the Doctor must admit, he doesn’t like to have to share the attention.  
  
After sighing, he wipes his hand on his pants before going down the ladder, searching for the cooling capsule Clara inadvertently—he isn’t sure though, it could also be one of these war games the TARDIS and her seem to love playing to—dropped here. Contrary to what the laws of gravity dictate, the cooling tube isn’t in the corridor where the ladder is. It’s not in the adjacent rooms either, where it could have rolled. It’s just not here, like it’s disappeared into a crack.  
  
He looks around for any time leak, nervous because he hasn’t forgotten what happened with Clara last time and how it’s a future version of him that saved the day: he saw what could’ve possibly happen, thanks to his time sense and how he could’ve lost Clara, again. He’s still being a little bit fussy about her since. Trenzalore only worsened it.  
  
Through their connection, he searches for any indications of what could have disturbed his Old Girl but doesn’t find anything wrong. Except, maybe, for the fact that Jack and Clara are only speaking and, since they aren’t having sex right now, he could be with them right now.  
  
He sniffs as he reminds himself his companions are allowed to have some privacy, even if they aren’t having sex. He’s not being fair. He’s got Jack for himself most of the time and Clara doesn’t even sleep here everyday. She just staying here tonight because she’s in no state to go back home with her sprained right wrist.  
  
Well, to be honest, she did wanted to leave and basically told him to go to hell. Her exact words were “I can take care of myself, Doctor, I’m not a puppy you’ve got to look after” and the Time Lord wanted to shot back how she didn’t understand he just couldn’t let her go exhausted and in pain. She’s his companion, his responsibility and it’s his job to look after her and see that everything is fine. She’s being too bloody obstinate to accept to let him heal her injury. And why humans are so fragile in the first place? Were they a little bit more Time Lord-y, he wouldn’t be so worried about them all the time.  
  
Fortunately, Jack somehow found the right words to make her stay. The Doctor did sulked a little though, because it’s not normal Clara listens more to the captain than to him. He can’t do anything about it because he doesn’t want to upset her more than necessary. Still, it doesn’t mean it’s not annoying.  
  
Speaking of annoying, where did the TARDIS put that cooling tube? He’s already checked dozens of rooms by now and is growing a little bit tired of roaming into the lowest levels when there isn’t anything remotely fascinating there and Jack and Clara’s chattering in the back of his mind is too much fascinating: he’s trying his best not to spy on them but it’s getting difficult when Jack doesn’t seem as cautious as usual about his psychic barriers.  
  
For someone as curious as the Doctor, it’s a dilemma: he  _knows_  he shouldn’t do it, it’s not very moral or respectful of him. However, his current companions are fascinating enigmas and he’s getting annoyingly bored because his Old Girl is toying with him. On the top of that, he’s got the feeling Jack is clearly inviting him. After all, the captain never makes that kind of action on purpose. He never let his barriers slip before, not once. The Doctor has been watching all the time since he first met that version of Jack, waiting for an occasion like this one.  
  
He won’t let it pass.  
  
He was right: the moment he brushes Jack’s mind, as soft as a caress, the sort that wouldn’t be noticeable when distracted, the captain closes his eyes, muttering a few words to Clara while sending him thoughts of himself. Of the Doctor. Of her. The three of them, all naked and tangled. The Time Lord doesn’t know when Jack got such a sharp grasp of telepathic communication, but he can only admire his skills.  
  
He can feel the soft satiny texture of Clara’s skin on his palms, the sweet—Jack—and heavy—Clara—mixture of pheromones, the first like a fine elixir while the other has the charm of pristine nature, savage and brute like humans from the 21th century are compared to those of Jack’s original time: a time when they all but engineered humans everyone (from most species) would find agreeable. The contrast is sharp, one being like a finished processed product while the other is still waiting to deliver her potential. And he likes it, even though sometimes, he feels a little lost between the two (not that he’d ever tell it aloud), not really knowing where he stands.  
  
It’s not like when there were Jack and Rose, where Jack was merely that human Rose fancied, whom he viewed as a pupil and never was anything like an equal. It’s not like when he found the captain  _wrong_ , he winces at that, then learnt to live and appreciate him as an equal, not wrong, just as special as all his companions always are. Just a different special.  
  
He genuinely likes this Jack, this Jack who seems to know everything about him, be it this regeneration or the previous. No matter what he does, the captain never seems even remotely surprised, much to his annoyance. It’s jarring to see how Jack can read him like an open book and he can’t help but wonder what happened between them to make the immortal such at ease with him, sometimes, even making the Doctor feel like a child compared to him. Although he doesn’t like the sensation at all, it’s kind of refreshing, their relationship. Simple and clean, Jack doesn’t even ask anything of him (not that the Doctor remembers him asking anything ever, even before) and he tries not to question him about the future (or how involved he’s with the Doctor’s relatives, even if the Time Lord suspects it’s a lot).  
  
Somehow, he ends up where they are, in a room that’s clearly not Clara’s with her shelves of books and trinkets she’s picked on the worlds they visit, the ones that are too weird for her flat. Here, the walls are of a dull white and the bed is the sole furniture. The humans are on it, alternating between sweet kisses and soft whispers while they cuddle on the bed, which is far too big for two. They talk about him. Clara is wondering, not quite convinced Jack can make the Doctor come to them. With her back on him, she hasn’t noticed yet he’s already here, standing in the doorway.  
  
Jack isn’t as oblivious: he knows and he’s looking over Clara’s shoulder straight to him, mouth next to her ear and an eyebrow arched at him, questioning, encouraging and somehow, challenging him to join them.  
  
The Doctor ignores him for now. His eyes just fell on blue luminescent tubes, half-hidden by the red sleeve of a discarded dress. He stifles curses, not wanting to disturb the lovers on the bed as he turns his attention back to them, the cooling tube already forgotten for now.  
  
As they are, lascivious and indecent—much more in an artistic way than vulgar—draped in the heavy velvet sheets, their skin nothing more than glimpses of pale colours against the dark purple material, the Doctor is reminded of the exquisite erotism of Renaissance paintings. Such a wonderful period it is, indeed, birthing geniuses like da Vinci (he still remembers the proudness when he discovered his Vitruvian Man was indirectly based on the Doctor himself, eighth incarnation), or good old Michelangelo, afraid of heights but foolish enough to work on the Sistine Chapel.  
  
The Time Lord takes a deep breath as Jack kisses Clara’s neck before standing up. The captain, always a bit vain, takes his time to walk to him, making a show of it while Clara raises to rest on her elbows, watching both of them with attention, her expression a little unsure but still curious.  
  
And suddenly, he feels a little self-conscious. He’s the only one full clad and he literally walked into them because he was curious, dying for some company and also, trying to peep on Jack’s mind and ended up caught. It’s ridiculous really, that now, he feels examined by two predators when they’re only his companions, that he loves and trusts.  
  
However, he can’t help it. The room is becoming too small and hot and unwelcoming. He’s probably imagining things, making it worse than it really is but it doesn’t change the fact that, for once, he doesn’t appreciate being the centre of the attention.  
  
Jack’s hands are on his shoulders before he can make a 180 degree turn and flee out of here. Their grip is firm, but the Doctor knows he could free himself easily. He doesn’t. Instead, he forces himself to concentrate on Jack, as if they were alone.  
  
"We were waiting for you," Jack mutters before kissing him, hands already moving to unknot his bow tie, like he’d do were they in their own room.  
  
The Doctor’s arms flail awkwardly, still unsure about the situation but a little bit of routine is always nice. Also, he doesn’t want to be alone and bored. The captain is smirking against him, making them shift just a little, to let Clara have a better view of what’s happening, the Time Lord guesses as he’s being getting rid of his waistcoat. He keeps looking at Jack, as if it’d somehow protect him from Clara’s gaze, when he steps back to put his shoes, trouser and pants off, leaving him only in his shirt.  
  
It’s the Doctor’s turn to kiss Jack this time, nibbling playfully on his superior lip while he’s caressing Jack’s sides. There’s no way he’ll let the other do everything. He’s not a little child, he tells himself when he hears the shuffling of soft material, followed by light steps on the ground. He certainly isn’t apprehensive. He closes his eyes when he feels Clara’s hands—she’s standing just behind him, breath laborious and bathed in arousal pheromones that taste a little spicy—on his back.  
  
The immortal sighs against him. He breaks the kiss to bite lightly at the soft skin just under the Doctor’s left ear, making him gasp. He does it again and the Doctor understands that the other is trying to distract him from the fact that Clara is unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
"I know the rules," she whispers into his right ear when she’s finished. “Now, move and get out of that shirt.” He recognises the bossy tone she uses when she’s her nanny or teacher self. The one that doesn’t suffer any rebuttal. As such, he executes her order without even thinking. She recompenses him with a kiss on the base of his neck, making him shiver (it’s becoming obvious Jack told her more than the rules).  
  
"Both of you, on the bed. Right. Now."  
  
Somehow, the Doctor loses track of everything after that point. They move in a flurry, but he can’t actually say how, except that there’s a lot of accidental bumps, groans and curses and sighs. He knows that the heat, almost scorching between the two humans, surrounding him doesn’t feel bad and the human pheromones, albeit making his nose wrinkle because of their aggressiveness, smell rather good.  
  
The Doctor doesn’t really know why, but he can’t concentrate. His mind is preoccupied. He can’t help his eyes wandering anywhere but on them. The walls, ceiling and ground’s dull and boring white turned transparent, curtesy of the TARDIS, whose song is aerial. It suits the scenery she chose to display very well. It’s like they’re stumbling in an infinite sea made of sky, water rippling around their feet—whatever is on the ground in fact—as they progressed. Actually, the Doctor is extremely thankful for that: it makes the room seem less small and oppressive, as if the illusion made it bigger on the inside.  
  
After, much to his surprise, he loses the trail of time again. Until the moment when a red flash lightens the horizon, he’d be unable to tell what happened except for kiss.Jack.heat.touch.soft.Clara.breath.pain.awkward. He’s proud to be able to remember to be extra-careful of Clara’s sprained right wrist though.  
  
Colonies of fish-birds flee from cotton-candy clouds to others in streams of black ink. Clara’s head rolls back on his shoulder. Panting, she moves to rest it on the crook of the Doctor’s neck, ragged breath tickling his skin. Iridescent water splashes against the wall with violence, large drops flowing upside-down. The Doctor can’t help but watching their reflects, eyes glancing everywhere as if he could catch the thousands of them.  
  
He’s half-seating on the bed with his back against the head, cradling Clara, whose left hand fingers' grip on his knee is strong enough that the skin under them must be as red as the leaves the wind placate against the ceiling. It’s close enough that, were he standing, he could touch it only by stretching his arm.  
  
Jack grabs the Time Lord’s left hand as he raises it though, stilling himself to study him, eyes half-closed and sweat pearling on his brow. He’s puffing as he interlaces their fingers, then deposes light kisses on his knuckles, teeth flashing through his parted lips. Over the immortal’s shoulders, the Doctor catches clouds swirling into a mass of funny colours.  
  
Clara shifts between them, her uninjured hand coming to the small of Jack’s back. She uses it as a leverage, flexes her knees and pushes herself up, to settle back against the Doctor in her original more comfy position (she had collapsed a little because of all the movements and sweat) and he can’t help admiring her.  
  
For a moment, he watches the play of the polychrome lights on her skin, giving it an ephemeral and fascinating coloration that changes as fast as the sky that surrounds them; a never-ending sea of motions like the furious crowd of the clubs Jack loves to frequent.  
  
The Doctor blinks and when he opens his eyes again, he’s staring into a blue eternity. From here, in Jack’s dilated pupils, it seems like he can see the dark blue threads—thick and strong—that link the immortal to the TARDIS. That’s impossible of course, because these are purely psychic but he can feel them as surely as he can feel those that tie him to Jack. He wonders what the Captain see in his own eyes and suddenly feels imprisonned under, by these humans, these wonderful companions of his, as if he’s bearing the universe on himself.  
  
Somehow, he doesn’t really remember how he ended up there, how he let himself be charmed and kissed into that but the thought is suffocating. He looks away, eyes coming back on the storm ragging outside, spirals spitting splatters of liquid rainbows everywhere. It feels like the sky is being showered in fireworks, with his own hearts providing the drumming rolls in synchro with his companions’ rocking rhythm, vocals being nothing but Jack’s whispers against the Doctor’s neck and Clara’s little gasps and moans.  
  
"Doctor," she mutters and it's enough to snap him back to them.  
  
He wants to kiss her forehead, but can’t really move his head seeing how there is Jack’s on one side and Clara’s on the other. Instead, he settles for tickling her flank with his free hand, earning himself a small heel kick wherever she could hit him while she wiggles and giggles, making Jack stop moving.  
  
The captain’s low growl vibrate on his skin. When less than an instant later, their lips are on each others, the Doctor knows Jack is aware of how distracted he is. His grip on their still linked-hands is so tight it hurts a little, just enough to ground the Time Lord. Like the lightnings streaking the sea of clouds, leaving open dark space in their wakes, their kiss is hot and wet, thunderous and messy.  
  
There isn’t much the Time Lord can think in this moment, except that he wants Jack, he wants to meld with his mind, see through his eyes and feel through his skin and soul, and that maybe, maybe, this time he’ll understand the absolute mystery that is physical sexual intercourse for him. But most of all, he wants to share what he can’t say aloud, what he’d never admit: even though he like every bit of it, he’s out of his depth right now, he’s got no control and he doesn’t like it.  
  
He squeezes Jack’s hand impatiently until the captain releases it, then put his fingers on the Doctor’s temple. The Time Lord’s vision sways. It morphs into a replica of the sky illusion outside, all stormy and messy, but incredibly beautiful. Like always, there’s dark blue and silvery tendrils everywhere in their shared headspace; the TARDIS song is also much louder, like it impregnates the whole atmosphere.  
  
He can’t see Clara anymore—she’s not part of it—but he still feels her body moving against theirs and the loud gasps that tell him the Captain is back at it. He’s impressed, really, that Jack has enough focus to be able to satisfy their Impossible Girl while he also caters to the Time Lord’s needs. Accommodating to both of them, making it seems like it’s no big deal to have to concentrate on two different planes with two different persons. It seems that he underestimated the Captain’s skills when he’s determined to have his way—because it was his idea—of course. This wouldn’t be the first time, he sighed fondly, while Jack chuckles against his neck.  
  
 _Are you okay?_  Jack’s mouth is leaving a trail of light kisses on the Doctor’s collarbone, reaching for a silver pillar. It pulses under his teasing touch and the Time Lord let out a particularly whiny sound.  
  
 _You’re cheating!_  The Doctor is pouting: he can’t help but flail as the sly fox let his pleasure pass through one mind to the other.  
  
He can feel Clara’s soft skin as they caress her, how she jerks around them, her smell heavy on his tongue with the pheromones exuding from her every pores, still tasting a little strange: it’s not that he hates it, but he doesn’t love it like Jack’s. He’s not used to it like he’s used to Jack’s, he realises. As much as he’d like, the Doctor can’t bring himself to be as excited as the captain. It’s reflected on his sulky face. However, it only seems more endearing to the Captain.  
  
Still, he’s considerate enough to let the Doctor guide them to what the Time Lord finds much more pleasurable, exploring (nothing as deep as if they were only two though) the fields of their mental scape, sharing the pleasure they drawn from the other’s presence and happiness, nudging themselves and tugging exactly what needs to be for them to climax. This time it’s a little too fast and too clinical for the Doctor’s taste but they don’t want to get lost, leave Clara alone much more than necessary. They don’t want to give her the impression she’s been locked out.  
  
Later, when they emerge, Clara has extricated herself from between them. She’s lying on her side, eyes watching them with some kind of awe, a small satisfied smile brightening her face, making her even prettier than usual. The Doctor is smiling from ear to ear, a very goofy smile of pure bliss (all his anxiety far away for now). He’s dizzy and cozy and all comfortable, his body placated against Jack’s like if they were trying to simulate their mental fusion. He’s not bothered that Jack is hard against his crotch, even if he doesn’t intend to do anything about it.  
  
But it’s okay, it’s not the first they’re in that kind of position, Jack’s never been anything but understanding. And Clara can take care of that anyway, it wouldn’t be the first time for her either.  
  
The only thing that’s new is the three of them in the same room at the same time. It’s not perfect but he’s willing to try the experience again. The Doctor and his Impossible companions. He decides it sounds pretty cool.


End file.
